75 A Visit to the Prison

and supposed I was a nun. “Mother, give us a prayer book - a rosary,” they begged of me. “No,” I said, “but I will teach you how to pray from your heart.” They were made to sit on benches and I stood before them I mixed my English with whatever Tagalog I knew and realized that, for the first time in my prison ministry, I was talking to murderers! I wanted to show even these hardened men that God loved them in spite of their sins.

Their tattooed bodies testified to their gang membership and the violence of their lives. The stockades that housed them had been built of the steel matting the U.S. Air force had used for landing planes during the fighting in the Philippines during World War 11.

The senseless killings disturbed the entire prison, and for several weeks the atmosphere was turbulent and unpredictable. The slightest movement inside a cell would cause all the men to run for cover. Many were attacked with whatever weapons the men could devise. I saw one man, cringing near the gate, begging to be transferred to another dormitory. He, and many others, were acting like scared rats. Riots spread to Davao Penal Colony and there was retaliation among the gangs incarcerated there. Men were killed upon the slightest provocation.

Those who were caught taking part in the riots were put into leg irons, made to do hard labour and to sleep on the cement at night. Early one morning, it was raining and still quite dark when some prisoners sneaked out of their cells, crawling along the prison grounds. They neared the prison gate where the rioters were held in the leg irons. These helpless men were killed before the guards knew what was happening.

After nine months, the stockades that held these men were destroyed and they were returned to the New Bilibid compound where they occupied Building Four. I continued to minister to them there. The day came when one of my elders baptized eighty members of the Sputtnik gang in the water tank of their dormitory.

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me. Because the Lord has anointed me to preach good tidings to the poor, He has sent me to heal the broken hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound.” (Isa. 61: 1)

We influence change by the grace of God 75 A Visit to the Prison

This is a quotation from Sentenced to Death” By Earl Wilkinson and Alan Atkins, Chapter 14.

Meanwhile, Wilkinson also had been very busy. The lawyer, to whom he had given both the transcript and a check in order to obtain an opinion, returned both with apologies. The reason he could not take on the task was that his firm specialized in prosecuting paedophiles, not defending them. As Geoffrey Robertson Q. C. wrote in one of his books, “The most unpopular task any lawyer can undertake is that of defending paedophiles.”

He decided that it was the turn of Atkins to pull it apart and see what could be found that might assist in the Appellant’s Brief that had to be considered when the case came up for review before the Supreme Court. Meanwhile, he invited Atkins to accompany him on his next visit to Wilson. The visit was so traumatic that, upon return, Atkins wrote it up in his computer while the emotion was fresh. It said:

We sit on the concrete bench, smoking our cigarettes, looking out into the valley of lush grass and banana palms, enjoying the cool of the early morning. To get here at this time, we had both risen before the sun. Dawn had witnessed us in a taxi, being driven down the South Superhighway, away from the city of Manila and towards the town of Muntinlupa, home to Bilibid Prison. Our mission? To meet Albert Ernest Wilson, British subject, incarcerated on Death Row, waiting for his final appeal to be considered by the

Supreme Court of the Philippines. For him, rejection will mean being, well, as he puts it, “murdered,” in a semi-ritualistic manner. He will be strapped to a trolley, arms outstretched as though being crucified. Needles will be inserted into his veins and three substances will be injected into him, the final of the three being lethal. All for a crime that he did not commit. One of which he is totally innocent. That of raping his twelve-and-a-half-year-old stepdaughter.

Our names are called and we pass through into a wire-meshed cage, to be searched. Not only the body, but also the contents of the bags containing food, magazines and writing materials.

We go into a small adjacent covered area. At the desk, we hand over our identification documents, Earl his passport, me my driving license and we receive a gate pass. We offer our right arms and two stamps of blue indelible ink are made. The first clearly states VISITOR and Gate 4. The second is the outline of a Yale-like key, a very symbolic motif in this place.

Thus adorned we approach the guard, who again conducts a body search and asks our destination. We tell him and he shouts, “Coming through for one-D” and ushers us through the gate. Then along a narrow covered walkway, meshed both sides to a sharp bend and here is the final guarded entry gate into the jail itself As we pass, a prisoner in an orangecoloured, loose-fitting jacket, takes hold of the bags and says, “One-D? This way. “He turns and starts to walk very fast across an open area, around the sides of which lounge men in shorts, singlets, and slippers. Cries of; “Hey Joe,” assail our ears. We are nervous. We are walking unguarded through an area that contains some of the most notorious criminals in the Philippines. What is worse, the prisoner with our bags seems to be getting too far in front. We hasten our steps to catch up. The layout is confusing, with many large, two-storey blocks around us, each with its own high-mesh fence surrounding it.

We come to Block One-D, one of the high security blocks set aside for those condemned to death. We wait at the padlocked gate while our guide locates the trustee who has the key. Behind the fence, a set of steps leads up to the wide-open door. Men are cramming into the small open space between building and fence; the only open-air portion permitted them. They are all staring through the fence at us. “Here he is, “ says Earl next to me, who has the benefit of the experience of an earlier visit. I see a bearded man who has just emerged from the darkened interior of the building. Tall, gaunt and, above all, white, he stands out among the hoard of bustling Filipinos around him. His face first registers astonishment, as we are not expected, but a smile comes on his face as he descends the steps to the gate. At this moment the trustee arrives and unlocks the padlock while Earl tips the guide. The gate is opened, we step through, and it is locked behind us. We are now alone inside a compound with 260 men, all of whom are condemned to die unless their sentence is adjusted by the Supreme Court appeal.

It is perhaps not an appropriate time to visit the very block, which, four days previously, the very first man to be executed in the Philippines for over 14 years, Leo Echegaray, called home. The atmosphere was bound to be tense, and yet, no guards appear to be inside the compound or even within viewing distance.

A Water Hole. Turned on X2 a day Water hole when it rains.

Introductions are made. “Come to my cell, “ he invites. He turns and goes up the steps. We follow.

Inside—my God—I just do not believe this. It is like stepping in a time-warp machine. We have surely just been transported back 100 years. We are in a central corridor, which is about twenty feet wide. It runs the length of the building. Small twenty-watt fluorescent lights are spaced widely apart down the centre. Some of the gloom is relieved by the fact that every cell door is open allowing a little natural light to spill out. People are everywhere. Some sit on wooden, home made stools and benches. Some squat on their haunches. Some on small plastic stools. A religious motif cut out of plywood and lovingly painted with pictures of the Virgin Mary forms a small barrier and hides the television set already blaring away behind it. Men are squatting down outside cells, with paraffin stoves, cooking for themselves. Others are walking with old plastic bottles in their hands either to or from the one tap at the end of the corridor, collecting water of doubtful quality for their cell. People stare as we pass them. Some say, “Visitors, Suny?” and he nods and smiles. None speak to us. The inmates’ rules, developed and applied by themselves, and enforced by the ‘mayor’ of the block, are very strict. Nobody is allowed to talk to a visitor without being asked to by the visited person.

We arrive at a door that is the same as all the many others. “Wait a minute, “ says Albert Wilson, “I will ask whoever is still in here to vacate and leave us to talk. “ He enters. A pair of legs appears, preceding a large Filipino off a bunk, who picks up a cup from a shelf, smiles and passes us. “Come in. Wait here and I will try to borrow some stools.” We enter.

The cell itself measures eight feet by ten. To four men this is home until they leave, carrying their meagre possessions, through the gate of the compound. Once through the gate, they will either be led to another cell in the main prison as the Supreme Court will have commuted their death sentence into a term in prison, or be led to the small, newly constructed compound to wait in solitude for a few hours for their appointment with death or, and an almost impossible dream, be led to the exit and set free to go into the world and sin no more.

Four bunks are in the cell. A double bunk along the longer wall and two fixed above the shortest, crossing the room at either end. The bunks have plywood bases resting on steel bars. If one cannot get a visitor to bring in a mattress or some foam, the concrete floor would probably be no harder.

One barred window without glass lets in light and air. It is not only barred, but has steel shutters made from old, military paving-sheets, with the large holes allowing passage of light and air but acting as a partial barrier to sun and driving rain. Storage space is at a premium. We stand there, wondering how men can possibly endure such conditions and remain sane. Were these dog kennels, in many other countries they would be closed by the

authorities and the owners punished. Wilson returns with two blue plastic stools and we sit, with himself using the bottom bunk.

With my nervousness of the location and the inhabitants starting to ease, I relax and look at this man about whom I know so much and yet have never met. Suny Wilson sports a grey week-old beard that partially covers what was once a handsome face. “I only shave about every ten days, “ he explains. “It limits the chances of infection.” His hair has gone prematurely grey. He is only 44 years old. He apparently used to be a bulky man, who now has slimmed, so that one would suspect, in different circumstances, that he was a regular jogger. The eyes show the continual strain of

Earl Wilkinson has brought a load of papers, press clippings and news. He has written a list of things he wishes clarified. He, like many others, is working to try to get the courts to recognize Suny’s innocence and set him free. At the time of the visit, he has spent over two years incarcerated, away from his common-law wife and her son and mother. Stressful enough if one is guilty. Doubley stressful if innocent.

We sit and talk about the case, about his previous life. It is dreadful to hear him state emphatically that he will be murdered in the Philippines. The genuine love that he has for his common-law wife, Vicky. The sadness that because she is in hiding from warrants of arrest for a trumped-up charge in connection with his case, that she cannot visit him. The fear that his stepson may turn to drugs, as he has no father present to discipline and guide him. Even the fear of what this whole case is doing to his stepdaughter, N. While carrying out my own research, I have come to dislike this girl very much. She is the one who has put him here on Death Row. Suny, surprisingly, expresses worry about her mental state now that she is under the full influence of her natural father.

A banging of a rod against iron rings through the place. “Just a minute, “ he says, standing. “It is a head count. I’ll get out of it. “ He is out and back in less than a minute. Earl asks him about the small electric fan the British Embassy had tried to deliver to him. He smiles. “They didn’t understand the system, “ he explains. “There is a standard bribe to the guards of P 500 (US $ 17.00) to allow the fan in. The guy that delivered it wouldn’t pay it, so it wasn’t allowed.” Clearly, you needed an outside source of income to be able to survive in jail. The food allowance is just P 32 per day, less than $1.00. Purchases of supplementary food can be negotiated with the vendors who are allowed to roam around the compound every day.

Between discussing the points of the case that Earl needs to raise, we learn a little about life in this jail. There are other foreigners, but they are either Japanese or Chinese. Suny is the only Caucasian in this block. The Chinese are generally left alone. There are a lot of Chinese-Filipinos outside who tend to be rich and powerful. Touch one of theirs in here and you do not know what they could do to yours outside. The Japanese, and of course Suny, have nobody on the outside, so they can be bullied at will. We meet one of the Japanese prisoners who has been sentenced to death for having in his pocket just five grams over the legal limit of marijuana that would have defined him a user, while outside in the main jail, Filipinos are serving a few years for being caught with kilograms. It is explained that his embassy gives him P 10,000 every month, which he willingly shares with all of the inhabitants of his block. He is now having problems, because they are pressuring him for more than that, which he does not have. Suny is lucky. Visits by his Consul, and growing publicity in the press have made the Superintendent of the jail nervous. He has instructed the ‘mayor’ to provide two “minders. “ An injured Suny could mean many problems for him, which he does not want.

My mind wanders. In every country, in every prison, you can hear the claim of